


A Cup for the Soul

by Anonymous



Series: Bits and Pieces [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Platonic Relationships, Seriously so much soft fluff, The teen rating is because the f-bomb is dropped one (1) time, They had a bad day — they'll be okay., This is a comfort fic.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29694672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes there are good days. Sometimes there are bad days. Sometimes neither of those things have reasons behind them.On the bad days, it helps to have a roommate to rely on.(Quite literally a self-indulgent, soft fic, with warm tea, a single hug, and emotional validation. Extraordinarily soft, and no specified AU, although I'm inclined to think this is probably a more Vanilla-Undertale Gaster. Then again, any situation where Gaster appears is technically an AU, isn't it?)[Edit: Unrelated to Oblivious, the other work in this series! Just put them in a series together for ease of location.]
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), W.D. Gaster & Original Character(s)
Series: Bits and Pieces [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2182239
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Anonymous





	A Cup for the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, you can totally imagine this to be a reader thing. Hell, you can even imagine it's romantic if that floats your boat, just pretend the line about platonic stuff isn't there, I don't mind. 
> 
> This fic is meant to serve as a warm hug on a bad day to those who need it, and a little bit of emotional fluff to those who don't. 
> 
> Also Gaster says "dear". That's the only term of endearment. I don't know if that matters, but I think he's classy like that haha.

* * *

They slammed the door as they walked in, eyes wide and one hand clutching at their chest. Their companion — abruptly interrupted from his lounging, glanced up with a furrowed brow — closed his book a bit around his thumb to mark the page, hesitant greeting caught in his throat. It died off instantly, trailed off to something new. 

"Oh," he muttered lowly as he raked his eyes over their hunched form, just barely audible as he blindly marked the page — bookmarks were a _godsend_ — "oh, you poor thing." 

The book was quickly set to the side, pressed up close to the wall with the rest as he pushed himself upright. They hadn't moved from their place in front of the door, although they looked wound up enough that he wouldn't be shocked if they fled to their room before he could get another word out, much less get close enough to touch. Still, the fact that they hadn't snapped at him was a promising sign — their temper, whilst occasionally an issue, was almost always a sign of a _terrible_ day, and their endless apologies never ceased to make his chest ache with a mixture of concern and rage of his own. He'd rather avoid that if he could. 

He approached slowly, arms spread just enough to show his disarming intent. 

"What happened, dear?"

Considering their initial startled reaction to it he hesitated over the nicknames for a long time, but at their lack of protest, he felt his shoulders relax a bit. (Their relationship was entirely platonic, but the pet names had simply been something that carried over in his dialect — once he'd expressed that fact, they'd reluctantly explained that sometimes they responded poorly to them, but that they didn't mind as long as he didn't use them in a patronizing manner. That was fine; he never intended to do so anyway.)

Their mouth trembled for a moment, less from the prospect of tears than a physical manifestation of their restraint — they had certainly had a bad day today, then. A frown tugged heavy at his lips. 

"Do you want to sit down?" He offered after a moment, not quite certain that they'd respond well to a hug, "I'll make you some tea if you like." 

Perhaps the tea card was a bit unfair — he knew they were a sucker for it, but it always seemed to help improve their mood, so he found it difficult to feel guilty. Their expression shifted just a bit, tempted, but not quite convinced. He sighed internally and prepared drastic measures. 

"... I'll bring that candy you like so much," he coaxed softly, "just take a moment." 

That was the tipping point. They nodded hastily, fingernails still gripped too-tight into the sleeves of their sweater. He resisted the urge to pull their shaking hands free; they'd let go on their own once they had something else to hold. They padded dutifully over to their seat, a plush couch that sat comfortably between their own separated chairs. That choice was all the indicator he needed — for the time being they were comfortable with close proximity, at least. 

But first, tea. 

The tea was easy enough. He set the kettle to boil after checking the water inside, took a moment to rifle through their cabinets until he could find their favorite tea, and plucked their favorite mug from the drying rack. He was glad he'd done the dishes before; it was usually their job, but he'd been washing off his own dish and figured it would be nice for them to come back home to something clean. They did it often enough for him, after all. The kettle went off, and he waited a moment for the water to cool off enough not to shock the leaves before he set them to steep. While he waited, he reluctantly flicked one hand forward, index finger pointed outward. His fingertip glowed just a bit with magic as the lock popped open, and he plucked one of the opened bars from the drawer before he locked it up properly again. 

He took a moment to look at it, mild bemusement pulling contortions into his expression. They'd been so firm about the need to lock it all away before they ate it all, but nary a day went by before they begged him to open it so they could consume it all in one go. Eventually, he started refusing, always gently reminding them that they'd want to eat it later, and that they were rather expensive for candy bars. They usually relented, even if it was with great amounts of griping. He set the bar aside and checked on the tea. With a little honey, a little milk, it was done. 

He picked the cup up in his right hand and the bar in his left, walking quietly into the main room with a slightly somber smile. They'd curled up on the sofa by that point, legs pulled up to their chest and a blanket draped over their shoulders. They'd also let go of their iron grip, but the scratches they might have made would have left marks on their arms — he'd fuss over those later. He cleared his throat. 

"Here, my dear. Take it." 

He offered the cup and they took it, managing a quiet, but earnest thank you in reply. His smile brightened a little, but it dimmed again with the weight of the mood as he sighed, settling in on the opposite side of the sofa. They didn't protest, instead occupied themselves with their cup, took a small sip, and huffed. 

"You remembered," they murmured, "how much milk and everything." 

"Of course," he chuckled lowly, "I endeavor to remember anything I deem important." 

Their face scrunched up a little in what he knew was familiar, and a bit of the heaviness in the air seemed to lighten as he chuckled, unphased by the gentle swat they leveled at his arm, careful not to tip their cup. 

"Shut up," they grumbled, unable to hide a bit of their smile until they drowned it in their drink, still muttering; "Stupid wholesome _jerk."_

He pressed a hand to his chest, a mockery of offense as he gasped. But that quickly faded too, and they fell into gentle silence as they worked their way through the cup. When it was halfway drained, they settled their hands in the crook of their knees, and he presented the bar. They eyed it, but when he nodded encouragingly they eventually took it. 

The foil crinkled as they unwrapped it, biting off one of the pieces in a rather uneven shape. At least it was a small bite this time, rather than the inane manner in which they usually consumed them — (half a bar gone in an instant, bites so large that he genuinely panicked in fear of them choking before they laughed.)

It was only when they were finished with that first bite that he tilted his head, hands spread wide. 

"... do you want to talk?" He offered. It was still strange to him sometimes, the atmosphere they created. When they first proposed the question to _him_ on one of his more irritable days, he'd been rather shocked; it was rare for anyone to ask after his wellbeing since he spent most of his time alone, much less if he _wanted_ to tell them when they did. It had been quite a validating experience — or at least that's what they'd explained to him when he asked and described his feelings — to have the _option,_ alongside express concern. 

Their expression, while not quite as haunted as before, melted a little into misery again, and he felt that familiar ache. 

"... it's dumb," they whispered, "and — no, don't give me that look. It's really — it's dumb. Seriously. It's… _so_ stupid." He frowned. 

"I find very little about you to be dumb, my dear," he admonished gently, "well; save for your terrible eating habits, of course." 

The joke was dry, and he smiled when they snorted, snickered into their palm. 

"Oh god, get off my ass about that," they scoffed, still smiling; "I'll eat like a gremlin if I want to."

His laugh was quiet. 

"Not on my watch, you certainly will not," he reminded them, and they rolled their eyes, but he allowed himself to slip back to seriousness as he continued; "Really, you can tell me. I promise I won't laugh." 

They mumbled something, and he could have sworn it was along the lines of _laughter not being the problem,_ but they started in earnest before he could ask. 

"... I just… I _feel_ bad." 

They said it like it was something shameful, looked even worse. Their body curled in on itself as their grip on the bar turned white-knuckled, and he was quite abruptly glad that they'd put the cup down. 

"Bad?" He prompted. They let out a pained sound, and he only just managed not to flinch on principle. He was too strong for his own good, certainly, but he could have sworn he— 

"I don't know _why,_ I just…" they whimpered, and _oh,_ not physical pain then. He wished he could be glad for it. Instead, he just felt quite sad, and a bit sick on their behalf. They continued to ramble, growing steadily louder and louder. 

"I just feel terrible. I woke up and I felt awful, and it didn't get _better,_ but I tried to get things done today anyway and it didn't work the way I wanted, and I — I just—!"

He gingerly plucked the bar from their hands and set it on the table beside their cup, reached out, and pulled them into a gentle, easy-to-escape hug. They stiffened for half a second, but they melted eventually instead of pulling away, so he didn't move. He vaguely recalled a time where they'd labeled that the _sad, limp burrito_ state after a night of watching odd television shows. 

"I'm sorry, dear," he murmured, almost a croon; "I'm sorry that you had a difficult time today." 

Their breath hitched, and the puff of air they let out sounded equally like a sob as it did a laugh. They weren't crying, but it seemed like a near thing. 

"... _thank you,"_ they whispered, and with such sincerity that it made the air itself snap in two; "everyone else always laughed at me or — or… fuck, they always said I was stupid, and even if they didn't they never…" 

_Cared,_ they didn't have to say. _Nobody ever cared. It wasn't serious enough for them._

He certainly understood from a clinical standpoint how that may be the case — human beings were known to cause all sorts of pain and suffering, many of which he was more than familiar with and usually never batted an eye at. But for some reason, he felt the oddest rage on behalf of his friend; something that made his fingertips itch with unused magic. He reigned it in before it could cause trouble. 

"I care," he assured softly, "I do." They sniffled in earnest that time. 

"I know," they croaked, "thank you." 

"You don't have to thank me," he said lightly. " _'You don't have to explain why you feel a certain way.'_ I'm quite sure that was you who told me that, no?" 

Their laugh felt a little less strained this time. 

"Yeah. You remember that too, huh?" 

"Of course I do." 

He glanced over to the coffee table, to his books and the chairs. To the tea. To the candy. 

"... of course I do," he repeated. 

_And you don't need to have a_ reason _to feel much of anything at all. Sometimes it isn't that simple._ He would know. 

In a little while, they would stand. He would press healing magic to any of their minor scratches — if they had them — as they finished their tea, no matter how much they protested that it was a waste. (And they would, much to his mild despair, because they always did, and he would have to remind them that it was his magic and his choice when to use it, to which they would then dramatically relent.) 

In a little while longer, they would move on and they would cook dinner, perhaps order something if neither of them felt up to eating whatever it was that they had. After that, they would retire to their respective rooms, or perhaps even hold one of their pseudo-slumber parties in the living room, because _'that was where the television was'._

But for now, they both waited for the time to pass, comfortable in the quiet.

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you have a lovely day, night, afternoon, whatever it is. But even if you don't, that's alright. There will always be another tomorrow.
> 
> As a side note, hilariously, I realized only after this was finished that I never once actually named Gaster in this fic. So hey, there's that.


End file.
